


some boys

by babyboicarti



Series: playboiuzi oneshots [1]
Category: Hip Hop RPF
Genre: Homophobic Language, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, boys in skirts uwu, femboy!carti
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:47:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29521794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyboicarti/pseuds/babyboicarti
Summary: As if moving on autopilot, Jordan grabs a black, high waisted skater skirt and a skin-tight mesh long-sleeve of the same color, laying them out on his bed. He eyes them for a moment, biting his lip before he strips and puts them on.Closing his eyes, he turns to the full-length mirror, taking a deep breath before he opens his eyes. He can't help but exhale in a quiet gasp as he takes in his reflection.(cross-posted from wattpad)
Relationships: Lil Uzi Vert | Symere Woods/Playboi Carti | Jordan Carter
Series: playboiuzi oneshots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168781
Kudos: 3





	some boys

Growing up, Jordan was always a little "effeminate", as his father put it. It wasn't something he forced nor restricted; it was just his nature. He liked feminine clothing. He often got his mother to paint his nails, though she would only let him wear clear polish. His voice was high and soft. He loved pretty things; diamonds, flowers, light colors. He was well on the sensitive side, very in touch with his emotions, not afraid to cry or admit when he was upset.

It didn't bother him when he was young. Gender norms were stupid to him. He remembers when he was seven or eight years old and his dad told him he couldn't get the pair of shoes he wanted because they were pink. Even at such a young age, he was telling his father that _"boys can wear pink too"_. Things like colors or clothing or feelings being exclusive to one gender just didn't make sense to Jordan.

But throughout his youth, every time he tried to assert himself in front of his dad, he got the same response: "Boys can do that, but that makes them faggots."

Faggot is a word that, unfortunately, Jordan heard quite often.

For a few years, Jordan didn't understand what the word really meant, and he didn't care to. In middle school, other boys often used the word to address him, simply because he liked to wear pink and had a high voice. Jordan simply thought the word meant he was feminine, and it didn't bother him.

When he was about fourteen and, as a late bloomer, began to take real interest in girls, he was surprised to find himself starting to look at boys in the same way. It didn't trouble him, but he had always heard of relationships involving a man and a woman; the limited sex ed class in school only discussed intercourse between opposite sexes. He was confused, but he was okay with it, until he told a boy he had a crush on him, and the boy called him a faggot.

That night, after an extensive Google search, Jordan learned what it really meant to be a faggot. He also realized that he himself was one, or at least halfway there. He began to feel a little uncomfortable within himself. He learned that many people believed it was wrong for a boy to be attracted to other boys. If so many people thought it was unnatural, then it must be, right?

From that night on, Jordan decided to tuck that part of himself away. He changed up his style, stopped manicuring his nails, and presented himself in a much colder and indifferent way. He dated a few girls throughout high school, lost his virginity at 15 and had an exclusively female body count in the double digits by the time he dropped out during senior year. People still called him a faggot, but he usually settled things with his fists, often in an attempt to prove that he wasn't a _faggot,_ he wasn't gay, he was normal, there was nothing wrong him.

It wasn't until Jordan decided he needed a fresh start and got on the bus to New York at 17 that he decided he would give up the act. Away from the judgment of his father and his classmates, Jordan did just that. He went back to dressing the way he used to, acting the way he used to, and he even tried to explore his sexuality; he flirted with boys, kissed them, slept with them, just as he continued to do with women. He didn't broadcast his sexuality for everyone to see; in fact, only the strangers he hooked up with knew but he was satisfied. If he thought too hard about what he was doing, the familiar feeling of shame began to cloud his mind, so he just didn't think about it. He was having fun, and it seemed he had finally managed to escape that terrible word he hated so much.

As his career began to rise, he was advised to act more masculine. Hip-hop and toxic masculinity went hand-in-hand; artists and fans didn't take well to men who deviated from their gender roles. Though Jordan was a little downtrodden, as he was finally feel comfortable with himself, he listened. He changed up his style and presented himself in a stronger, more aggressive way, and no one ever doubted him.

  


"Y'all see the cover for that new Thugger tape?"

Jordan looks up from his phone, shaking his head. Uno does the same where he sits on the opposite end of the couch.

Fauni rolls over on his office chair, brandishing his phone. _It's heat_ , is the first thing Jordan thinks, but then Uno starts laughing, and he realizes Fauni is showing them because the cover features Young Thug wearing a layered purple dress.

"Faggot shit," Uno shakes his head, and Jordan tenses, can't help himself.

Fauni looks over at Jordan, who looks a bit uncomfortable. "What you thinkin Carti?"

"Ion think it's that big," he simply says, "if he wanna wear a dress he can. I ain't gon' lose sleep over it."

"Nah, you gotta be suckin' dick to do some shit like that," Uno says.

Jordan looks over at him with a straight face. "Are you over-compensating right now?" Jordan can't say he'd be surprised; he sees the way his cousin looks at guys sometimes. It's the same way Jordan does himself.

Fauni barks out a laugh, rolling his chair away. "Are you?"

Jordan rolls his eyes and goes back to scrolling through Twitter. He doesn't miss the way Uno eyes him suspiciously.

  


"Ayo Carti, I want you to meet someone," Rocky calls, approaching him from behind.

Jordan turns around and sees his mentor walking up with Lil Uzi Vert. He's shorter than Jordan would have ever expect, and he finds that adorable.

Jordan expects to be dapped up, so he's a little suprised when arms wrap tightly around his middle. He looks at Rocky, who just shrugs with a smirk, so Jordan returns the hug.

"Hi," Uzi says dreamily when they separate, and he's definitely on something. "I'm Symere. I fuck with you."

"Thanks, I fuck with you too," Jordan says, feeling a little warm inside from the smaller man's words, "my name Jordan but every just calls me Carti."

"I know," Symere grins, grabbing Jordan's hand loosely, "come with me. I wanna get to know you."

He begins to pull Jordan past Rocky, who watches and chuckles.

  


Symere is easily the best lay Jordan's ever had. They hook up for the first time a few weeks after meeting, right in the studio. Symere rides him on a chair and it's quick but absolutely mind-blowing. Symere is skilled, knows exactly what to do with his hips to make Jordan finish.

Symere sat in Jordan's lap for the majority of the session. When Pi'erre had re-entered the studio, Jordan tried to coax Symere off his lap, but he wouldn't move. To his surprise, Pi'erre glances over at them, raises an amused eyebrow, and then returns to his attention to the track they were working on.

  


Spending a day in the studio with Frank Ocean is not something Jordan expected he would ever get to do, but here he is. It's the first time he's ever felt nervous to work with someone. He has so much respect for Frank, not only as a musician but as an individual. He admires the way Frank breaks hip-hop's standards for masculinity, even though he had more or less abandoned the genre since his Odd Future days. Somehow, hip-hop still embraces him, despite his sexuality and flamboyance.

Jordan listens as Frank lays down some vocals. They've been working for hours, in Frank's home studio, cooking up track after track, some rough and unfinished, some close to perfect. Frank is now singing about sex on the beach with a boy he once loved.

When he's finished, Jordan can't escape his curiosity. "How do you do it?" He asks without thinking.

Frank doesn't look up from the screen in front of him. "Do what?"

Jordan chews the inside of his cheek nervously for a moment before he speaks quietly. "You're so... comfortable with yourself. How?"

Frank leans back in his chair, eyeing Jordan defensively. "You asking because you don't think I should be?"

"No!" Jordan says quickly, eyes wide, "no, it's not that."

Frank hums, a knowing smirk on his lips. "Are you asking because you aren't comfortable with yourself?"

"Maybe," Jordan mumbles, dropping his gaze.

"Alright, Playboy," Frank laughs teasingly, "I never would've guessed."

"It's not... I don't hide it, necessarily," Jordan says, though he knows that's a bit of a lie, "I'm just... I grew up thinking something was wrong with me. I guess I just can't shake that, you know? And in rap, no one's really cool with it. How do you not care what people think? I'm... scared I'll lose everything I worked so hard for." Jordan confesses. It's the first time he's ever said it out loud.

Frank hums, resting a hand on Jordan's knee. "My mom was always real accepting. She knew I was different and she encouraged me. I got lucky. I always knew it was okay. I was scared, though, when I started doing this," he gestures around the studio loosely, "about how it would go over. I wanted to keep it a secret but the truth always comes out eventually. I just decided to own it. When people see how secure you are in yourself, they stop caring so much. And the people that still care... Shit, I'm the one with the GRAMMYs, right?"

Jordan chuckles, his heartrate picking up as he looks at Frank's hand on his leg. "Yeah. I'm just not on that level yet. And I'm not secure in myself. I mean, this?" He gestures to the clothes he's wearing, track pants and hoodie, "'s cool, but it's not me. People told me to change when I was first starting. So people would take me seriously."

"I wasn't always on that level either. I just knew I'd make it there one day, regardless of my sexuality. You got talent, Carti. The world already sees that, and some people might switch up on you, but that means they ain't the kind of people you want around anyway. You gotta let your art carry you, not your image." Frank pats Jordan's lower thigh twice before turning back to their work. "Do what you wanna do. Be who you wanna be. As soon as you stop living for other people, that's when you start really living."

  


"Wear that."

Jordan is standing in his closet, trying to figure out what to wear for his Rolling Loud set. Symere is laying naked in his bed, watching Jordan with his arms behind his head.

Jordan looks at him incredulously. _"This?"_ He asks, grabbing the hanger off of the rack. It's an oversizedsweatshirt, decorated by thick pink and white stripes.

"Yeah," Symere grins, "it's cute."

"Nah," Jordan shakes his head, putting it back on the rack. He continues to sift through his clothes as Symere gets out of the bed and joins him at the closet.

Symere stands on the tips of his toes to pull the sweater down again. He tosses it onto a nearby chair and begins looking through Jordan's selection of pants.

"Sy-"

"Shut up. Let me think." Symere murmurs, effectively silencing the younger boy.

The sweater isn't that bad. It's mostly the color he's worried about, though he doesn't think the oversized fit would go over all that well. It's one of Jordan's favorite sweaters, but it's very feminine.

Symere pulls out a pair of baggy lavender pants with studs along the sides. He places them down next to the sweater.

"That's it," Symere says, nodding once, "that's the fit. You're welcome."

"I'm not wearing that."

Symere raises an eyebrow, challenging him. "No? Why not? Cause you're scared?"

Jordan frowns. "Maybe. What about it?"

"It'll look good," Symere rolls his eyes, "I know you wanna wear it. You wanna wear it so bad."

"And have everyone call me a faggot? I'll pass," Jordan grumbles, eyeing Symere up. "Put some clothes on. Walking 'round here with your dick out."

Symere laughs, choosing to ignore the last part of his statement. "You are a faggot, though, right?"

Jordan bites his lip. "I... No."

"Oh? That wasn't you that just fucked me so hard I almost blacked out?" Symere asks sarcastically. "It doesn't have to be a bad thing, Carter. If people are gonna call you a faggot then own it. Wear the pretty colors you love so much."

"It is a bad thing," Jordan says quietly.

"Okay, faggot," Symere laughs bitterly, "just wear the damn clothes. They're just clothes. It's not like people are gonna know you're into dudes because you wore a fucking sweater. And the internalized homophobia isn't cute. You should work on that."

Symere walks past him, going to gather up his clothes from the floor.

Jordan stands there as Symere dresses, and neither of them say a thing before he leaves. _Internalized homophobia?_ Jordan knows he is _not_ homophobic. There's nothing wrong with people being gay.

 _So why is it wrong when it's me?_ Jordan thinks, and shit, maybe Symere is right. Maybe he does have a problem with homosexuality.

Jordan stares at the clothes on the chair, and he thinks about Symere's words, and the advice Frank Ocean had given him a few months ago.

He decides to just wear the damn clothes.

  


Jordan opens his phone up to Symere's contact and calls him.

They haven't spoken since Symere walked out. Jordan had tried texting him a few times, but he hadn't received an answer. He didn't realize Symere was so upset about the whole thing. Jordan doesn't have a problem with Symere being gay. He just isn't sure how to explain that while also explaining that he has a problem with himself.

_"Who the fuck you think you calling?"_

Jordan bites his lip. "You? Uh, I'm outside."

_"And for what reason?"_

"To apologize?"

The call drops and Jordan groans, staring at his phone and wondering if he should try calling again when he hears a buzz and the door clicks.

Grinning, Jordan opens the door of the apartment building and heads for the elevator.

The door is locked, so Jordan knocks, waiting awkwardly as he hears Symere approaching on the other side.

It's quiet for a moment before Symere opens the door.

"You're lucky you're so- are those roses?"

Jordan looks at the red bouquet in his hands, then back to Symere. "Yes. Is that good?"

Symere smiles, and it's tender, loving, genuine, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "That's so sweet."

Jordan opens his mouth to reply, but he's stopped by Symere's lips on his own. His eyes widen, because they've never kissed outside of sex. And maybe that's mostly Jordan's fault, always shying away when moments get too intimate.

Despite himself, Jordan finds his eyes closing, one arm slithering around Symere's waist, craning his neck to kiss him deeper. It feels good. It feels _right_. Jordan feels like he is exactly where he is supposed to be, and he starts to wonder if he should feel this way, but he ignores it, tightens his hold on Symere and gets lost in the moment.

  


When _IGOR_ drops, Jordan is surprised. Though _Flower Boy_ had some questionable lyrics, there is no way to twist his words with this one. The album is about a toxic relationship with a man. Tyler chronicles the story and the feelings in such detail that Jordan almost feels as if he lived it himself. The world is now going to know, in no uncertain terms, that Tyler likes boys.

Jordan calls him on FaceTime a few days after the release, when the excitement has died down just a bit. He starts the conversation with congratulations, though he had already given them over text.

They discuss the album for a few minutes before Tyler asks, "did you just call to kiss my ass or what?"

"Uh, no," Jordan mumbles, adjusting the camera so his face is out of view, "I just wanted to ask, how... the reception has been? About, you know. The subject matter."

"My relationship with a dude?" Tyler asks bluntly, and Jordan confirms. "It's been cool. The white girls love it. But after _Flower Boy_ it's not really a surprise I don't think."

"So you don't think it's gonna... Ruin your career or anything?"

"I'm projected to get my first number one," Tyler grins, "ain't ruining shit. Why you asking? You and Symere thinking of coming out?"

"I- what? How do you know about that?" Jordan asks, looking at Tyler through the screen with wide eyes.

"Symere told me," Tyler shrugs.

"We're not even together, we're just-"

"You could do it. You'd be fine," Tyler says, staring blankly at the camera.

Jordan bites his lip, eyeing his friend carefully. "You think so?"

Tyler just rolls his eyes. "Yes. Insecure ass. It's 2019. Maybe instead of asking if people care, you should ask yourself why you care so much."

Jordan is a little shocked by his blunt words, but he has a point. Why _does_ he care? Why is he so afraid to live his life authentically? When he sees other men acting femininely, or dating men, he has no problem with it. He _knows_ there's nothing wrong with it. Why won't he just accept himself?

Jordan changes the subject, but the thought continues to linger in his mind.

  


Jordan has a bad habit of spending money. He buys too many clothes he's never going to wear. It's worse when he's drunk, and he sees lace shirts and flowy skirts on online shops in the middle of the night. He fills his cart with all of the pretty pieces and checks out without second thought.

Right now, he's alone in his apartment in Atlanta, staring at his most recent online shopping spree. Some of the clothes are passable, things he'd wear out in public without second thought; things that are _manly_. But the majority of the clothes are meant for women. And as much as he wants to shove them in the back of his closet and never look at them again, he can't bring himself to do it.

As if moving on autopilot, Jordan grabs a black, high waisted skater skirt and a skin-tight mesh long-sleeve of the same color, laying them out on his bed. He eyes them for a moment, biting his lip before he strips and puts them on.

Closing his eyes, he turns to the full-length mirror, taking a deep breath before he opens his eyes. He can't help but exhale in a quiet gasp as he takes in his reflection.

The skirt stops an inch or two above his knees, showing just the right amount of his slim thighs. It's tighter at the waist and flares out just a bit over his hips, giving the illusion of a feminine figure. The shirt is tucked beneath the waistline of the skirt, and it clings it his skin perfectly, his deep complexion and tattoos visible through the material.

He looks good. He looks _pretty_. He feels so comfortable in the clothes, like they were made for him, and he can't help the elated smile that spreads over his face. He spins in a slow circle once, admiring the way the skirt lifts with the movement, the feeling of falling back against his skin when he stills.

Picking up his phone, he takes a few photos in the mirror. He knows he's never going to post them, but he wants to keep them for himself. He doesn't think he's ever felt so confident.

Jordan spends the rest of the day just doing chores around his apartment, listening to music and browsing social media, and he doesn't change out of the clothes until he goes to bed.

  


"Did you shave your legs?"

Symere's own bare leg stills where it had been rubbing against Jordan's and he lifts the covers to look down at his lower half.

"No," Jordan murmurs, a little embarrassed as Symere reaches a hand out to feel his skin.

"You totally shaved your legs," Symere says with a smirk, "they're so smooth. I like it."

"Yeah?" Jordan whispers, face heating up just a touch, "you don't think it's weird?"

"'Course not," Symere laughs, climbing on top of Jordan and straddling his waist.

He kisses at Jordan's naked chest as the taller man's hands come to rest on his hips. "You wanna go again?" He murmurs, moving one hand to knead at Symere's ass.

"Those legs got me all hot and bothered again," he teases, rubbing his growing length on Jordan's stomach.

"Oh my god, shut up," Jordan laughs, pulling Symere in for a kiss.

  


The next time Jordan gets dressed up, he decides to send Symere a picture.

He's wearing a skirt of a similar style to the first one he tried on, only it's a baby pink color and a little bit shorter. On top, he wears a tight, cropped t-shirt of the same color, accented by a white collar with rounded edges. Between the high waist of the skirt and the hem of the crop top, a thin strip of his stomach is visible, a stark contrast between the light colors of his clothes. His long legs are wrapped in pink fishnet stockings.

He takes the photo in the mirror, sitting back on his knees, with his face covered by his phone and his other hand resting in his lap. He sends it with a short text, _"what do u think ?"_ , and then watches his phone, nervously waiting for a response.

He's never even told Symere he likes these types of clothes, hell, he's never told _anyone_ , so the fear of ridicule and rejection fills him immediately after he sends the message. He puts his phone on the floor and begins to pace the room, biting his nails anxiously. After a minute that feels like hours, his phone vibrates against the floor.

 _"Love it. You look so beautiful baby. Send more ❤️"_ is Symere's response.

Jordan's heart swells and he laughs, airy and relieved, before proceeding to take a few more photos and send them to Symere. He responds with praises each time, telling him how good he looks, how beautiful he is, and to Jordan's surprise, none of his comments are even remotely sexual. Symere doesn't see it as a kink or a sexual fantasy, and it makes Jordan feel warm, understood, accepted.

  


Jordan decides, on a whim one night, to paint his nails red. He'd found a toiletry bag in his bathroom, likely left by some female he'd hooked up with, and inside was a bottle of red polish. When he saw it, he couldn't resist.

Once he's finished, his fingers shining in glossy cherry red, he realizes it's the perfect way to test the waters. He takes a video for his instagram story, where he flexes his chains and raps along to one his unreleased songs. The color of his nails is clear in the video and he posts it before he can convince himself not to.

The response is mixed, but he sees more positivity than negativity. People are more concerned with the music than anything else, but when the video is shared on Twitter and Instagram fanpages, there's some comments calling him a faggot and other slurs, but they're all met with countless responses defending him.

It makes him smile. It makes him feel good. He thinks that maybe Tyler and Frank were right; maybe these things _don't matter_. Maybe he can be himself and everything will be just fine.

  


Jordan starts to present himself more feminine in public and in photos. He doesn't do anything too crazy; he wears tight leather pants and mesh or net shirts, paints his nails often, even going as far as wearing red eyeshadow on a few occasions. Though he doesn't like these clothes as much as the skirts and dresses he wears when he's home alone, he feels much more like himself.

In what Jordan doesn't exactly realize is a big step for him, he cuffs Symere.

There's no dramatic confessions of love or romantic dates. One morning, he wakes up in Symere's bed, arm wrapped around the smaller man from behind. He presses soft kisses against his upper back and shoulders to wake him up, when he does, he turns around and greets Jordan with a soft kiss.

When they part, Symere stares into Jordan's eyes, caressing the side of his face with the backs of his fingers, and asks, "what are we?"

After four years of being best friends who sleep together and kiss and cuddle and spend almost all of their time together, Symere is finally asking for some clarity. Jordan takes a moment to think about it. Really, he and Symere are as together as they can possibly be, they just haven't put a label on it. That's mostly Jordan's fault; always avoiding any discussion of feelings or relationships for the simple reason that he's always been uncomfortable with his sexuality.

But when he thinks about it, he knows he's in love with Symere. Never in his life has he been so attached to someone. The love he feels for Symere is intense, so pure and so deep, it can't be wrong. So what if they're both men? It doesn't change the strength of his love.

"You mines," Jordan whispers, pecking Symere's lips, "do you want me to be yours?"

Symere grins, pulling Jordan in for a deeper, passionate kiss. "Yes. You _been_ mines. I'm happy you're finally ready to admit it."

Jordan hums, rubbing the tip of his nose against Symere's. "Me too."

  


By the summer, Jordan is done hiding.

His third album performed great, topping the charts and staying up there for a while. People are recognizing him for his music, his creations, and he's satisfied with that. He's finally ready to be true to himself, to who he is, and he doesn't want to have to keep it down low anymore. He just wants to live freely.

Jordan posts a photo to his Instagram and Twitter. It was taken a few days prior by Symere, and it features Jordan straddling his hips, wearing a short baby blue dress that hugs his waist and relaxes over his hips. One hand rests on Symere's bare stomach, the other hanging at his side, while Symere squeezes one of his hairless thighs. Though the photo cuts off at Jordan's chest, there's a deep red stain in the shape of his lips just above Symere's belly button from the lipstick Jordan is wearing. The visible tattoos make them unmistakable, but Jordan tags Symere anyway, captioning it with a simple heart.

After posting it, Jordan turns off his phone and cuddles up to Symere in the bed they now share at their home in Atlanta.

For the first time, he isn't worried about the backlash or the hate or the slurs that are undoubtedly going to be thrown his way. He feels secure in himself, in his art, he feels comfortable with who he is and how he dresses and acts. The nasty words won't bother him.

Finally, he accepts himself.


End file.
